


only you (and you can hear me)

by softirwin



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, Rocketman AU, me working out my obsession with taron egerton through malum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin
Summary: “Uh,” Calum says, looking out into the crowd, and Michael follows his gaze, trying to find what Calum’s staring at. “I’m going to go to the teepee with Heather.” Michael’s stomach sinks.“Really?” he asks, before he can stop himself, looking over at Calum.“Yeah,” Calum says, turning to look at Michael, and Michael whips back around before Calum can see the look ofplease don’twritten all over his face.“Alright.”-the tiny dancer scene from rocketman but HAPPY because you know what i'm like
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	only you (and you can hear me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellawritess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/gifts).



> me: Ok anyone here good at angst bc i'm thinking about the tiny dancer scene from rocketman. if i hated myself enough i would write that scene with malum michael pining after calum since childhood and suffering silently  
> bella: don't you fucking dare  
> me: ok heres an idea: i just rewrite it but with elton/bernie ending up together and elton/bernie being malum  
> bella: do it you coward 
> 
> so basically this fic is just the unholy union of malum and my obsession with rocketman/taron egerton's cover of tiny dancer. this was also expressed by me forcing bella to write the most beautiful malum fics to ever exist, [the rooftop scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357052) and [the your song scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357274) of rocketman. please watch rocketman by the way i deserve a commission for all the free promotion i've been giving this film lately
> 
> exams and academic things are now fully over for the summer which is like...insane to me cannot believe i graduate in july? and then do it all over again in september because i'm an idiot that chose to do a masters? but anyway. the point is that i am now technically free to write all summer long and boy do i have plans to WRITE. i have like a good 20 fic ideas plus the soulmate au to write so...we are (hopefully) going to be experiencing a Softirwin Bull Market

His show - his _first_ show, at least - has been a success. 

(Later, Calum will tell him that’s _exactly_ his problem; he’s always doubting himself, always qualifying his successes. Michael will flip him off and tell him just where to stick his fucking advice, and Calum will grin wickedly up at him and tell him he’d rather stick something else there instead.) 

It’d been a little shaky to begin with, the quiet beginning to Crocodile Rock something that he hadn’t run past either Calum or Ray and had just hissed to the band as he strode out on stage, and he’d seen Calum’s brow furrow when he held his first long, sustained note, up in the circle, arms draped over the barrier in front of him. Michael had swallowed, pushed through with the quiet beginning, hating every second that he could feel the confusion and anticipation seeping from the crowd, trying to wordlessly tell them _it’ll be worth it, it’ll be fucking worth it,_ and feeling a warm roar in his heart when he’d snapped it back to the rockier version, band joining in, and the crowd had cheered loudly. It had been smooth sailing from there, song after song, shouts for encores after almost every one, people clambering up onto the stage to sing songs they’d never heard before with him, eyes ablaze with joy. Michael’s never felt so fucking alive before, never felt like he’s actually _meant_ anything before, and it’s in that moment that he knows this is what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

He’s back in the green room now, eyes flickering around the room for the only person whose opinion he actually cares about when he finally spots him, and Calum comes bouncing up to him with the most beautiful woman Michael thinks he’s ever laid eyes on in tow. 

“It was so good!” Calum crows, pulling Michael into a fierce hug before Michael even has the chance to ask (nervously) what he thought. “You were brilliant.” Michael grins into Calum’s shoulder, wraps his arms tightly around him, inhales the faint scent of pine, cedar, incense, _home_ , that’s mingling with the stale alcohol air of the room. He never wants to let go.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, squeezing Calum just a little harder than maybe strictly necessary, and then Calum’s letting go, stepping back and gesturing at the beautiful woman accompanying him. She smiles, all elegance and grace, and if Michael weren’t both gay and head-over-heels in love with Calum, he thinks he’d probably be down on one knee by now. He’s not quite sure why Calum isn’t, actually. She seems like exactly the type of girl he’d go for, if the one night stands that have failed to sneak silently out of Michael’s mum’s house in the early hours of the morning are anything to go by. 

“This is, uh,” Calum says, gesturing at the woman, and smiling brilliantly. “This is Heather.” 

“Hi,” she says, smiling again, holding a manicured hand out for him to shake. Michael grins, reaches out to shake her hand, and casts a sly look at Calum, who’s gazing at Heather with a slightly dazed, faraway look in his eyes.

“Hello,” Michael says, eyes still on Calum and still too giddy from the high of the show to care all too much right now about just how pretty Heather is and just how much she’s Calum’s type. Everyone loved him, _them_ , his and Calum’s songs, and that’s more than one girl in a Hollywood bar has the power to destroy. Even if that bar is the fucking _Troubadour._

“You were _amazing_ ,” Heather says, and she sounds like she really means it. Pride swells in Michael’s chest - yeah, he was pretty fucking amazing, wasn’t he? - and his gaze flits back from Calum to Heather. 

“Thank you,” he says pointedly, and then grins at Calum again, who’s finally managed to tear his gaze away from Heather, looking back at Michael with a slightly sheepish _well, what d’you want me to do?_ expression on his face. Michael just raises his eyebrows at him, still grinning, and then notices Doug swaggering through the door, a cigar dangling lazily between his fingers. 

“Alright,” he says loudly, and everyone turns to look at him, because obviously they fucking do, he’s _Doug fucking Weston._ “Enough of this bullshit. Who wants to go to a party at Mama Cass’s?” There are a few murmurs of assent, and Michael’s about to turn to Calum to ask whether they should go - because frankly, it sounds like there’s going to be free alcohol, and who the fuck is Michael, struggling up-and-comer, to say no to that? - when Ray bursts through the door, brandishing a set of car keys. 

“I’m _so_ drunk, and Doug’s just lent me his car!” he announces, swaying slightly on the spot. Michael’s eyes automatically find Calum’s, and they both dissolve into laughter, something warm blossoming in Michael’s stomach at the fact that it’s _his_ eyes that Calum had sought, not Heather’s.

The car journey back to wherever the fuck this house is is short, seven people crammed into the car that Calum had physically manhandled Ray out of driving all screaming at the top of their lungs as the guy in the driver’s seat careers around the bends of the Hollywood hills. 

(“You’re drunk, Ray, you’re not fucking driving,” Calum had said sternly. 

“I don’t fucking care if I kill myself,” Ray had announced loudly, and the girl on his arms had shot him a half-amused, half-concerned glance. 

“It’s not you I’m fucking worried about,” Calum had said, and maybe Michael had imagined it, maybe it had been a trick of the light, but he’s _sure_ he’d seen Calum’s eyes flit to Michael for a split second.) 

Michael’s wedged in the back seat, Heather on his right, Calum on on her other side, and he can’t hear what anyone’s saying over the rushing sound of the wind in his ears but he feels so fucking alive, so _free,_ laughing almost hysterically at things that aren’t remotely funny and grinning out at the vast expanse of glimmering lights that make up LA below them. 

The car pulls haphazardly into the driveway of a huge house, nothing like anything Michael’s ever seen back home, driveway and garden lit up with a string of softly glowing fairy lights. They all tumble out of the car, Ray and the driver heading straight for the house with two girls in tow, and Michael dawdles for a moment, waiting for Calum and Heather to get out of the car. Calum catches his eye and grins - _can you fucking believe this is our lives now, mate?_ \- and slings an arm around Heather’s shoulders, heading for the door. Michael trails behind, adrenaline from the show wearing off now, trying his hardest not to care about the arm around Heather’s shoulders - Calum had still smiled at _him_ over the car _,_ still sought _him_ out to laugh at Ray with, after all. 

Heather’s swept up in a group of girls almost as soon as they get inside, chattering excitedly about how someone called Lucille is there and Heather throws them a graceful, apologetic smile as she lets herself be led away, explains something about Lucille being a former flatmate, or maybe a cousin, or something, Michael doesn’t really care. He’s too busy trying to pick a path through the groups of people sat on the floor smiling lazily at each other as they take hit after hit from a bong, bottles clinking like wind chimes, and Michael thinks vaguely that he should maybe work that into a song someday as he trips over hands and feet and mumbled apologies spill from his lips. 

Calum picks them up a bottle of beer each, gives one to Michael wordlessly, like he knows Michael needs something to do with his hands. Michael downs half of it in one go, trying to dull the edge of nerves in him, and accepts when a guy walking past offers him a joint. He takes a deep toke, wincing as the taste of weed and alcohol combine in his mouth and handing it over to Calum as he holds it in his lungs, only exhaling when Calum passes it back and taking another deep hit until his vision starts to sharpen, time starts to slow down. Calum grins at him, hands the joint to a passing couple who accept gratefully, and heads for a little sofa in the corner. Michael follows in his wake, throws himself down next to Calum, relishes the way Calum scoots a little closer to him. 

“How cool is this, man?” Calum says, exhaling heavily, like he can’t believe what’s happening. Michael knows the feeling. 

“Yeah, great,” he says, because Calum’s the lyricist, Calum’s the one that can put these things into words. Michael’s never been any good at that. Michael _is_ good, however, at making fun of Calum. “Apparently Dylan’s here, somewhere,” he adds, schooling his features into sincerity. 

Calum whips around to look at him, a look of pure shock and disbelief on his face, like Michael’s taking the piss (not unfounded, Michael thinks, since he _is_ taking the piss), and Michael can’t help the small, fond smile that unfurls on his lips, gaze flitting from Calum’s wide, brown eyes to his slightly parted lips and back again. Michael’s stomach does a little roll, possibly due to the combination of alcohol and weed and possibly due to the mere existence of Calum Hood, and he can’t help grinning at the excitement finding its way into Calum’s eyes. Calum notices, because of course he does, he notices fucking everything, and realisation dawns on his face. He scowls, elbowing Michael gently as he looks back over into the crowd of people, and Michael snorts quietly and takes another sip of his beer. 

“Uh,” Calum says, looking out into the crowd, and Michael follows his gaze, trying to find what Calum’s staring at. “I’m going to go to the teepee with Heather.” Michael’s stomach sinks. 

“Really?” he asks, before he can stop himself, looking over at Calum. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, turning to look at Michael, and Michael whips back around before Calum can see the look of _please don’t_ written all over his face. 

“Alright.” He nods, trying to convince himself more than Calum that he’s okay with this, because it’s not the first time Calum’s cut his time with Michael short for a fuck, but it never stings any less. Calum’s not his, after all, no matter how much Michael is Calum’s. “Okay.” He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it of the thoughts buzzing through his slightly-inebriated mind, and Calum pauses, still looking at him, a slight crease between his brows. 

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” he asks, and Michael looks back at him, hesitating for a moment when he sees the look of concern on Calum’s face. If he says no, Calum will stay with him, he knows that. The selfish part of him wants to say no just to spite Calum, just to make him stay, just to stop him from breaking Michael’s heart a little more. Instead, the part of him that loves Calum, the biggest part of him, makes him swallow it down, frown like Calum’s just asked something stupid, and nod. 

“Yeah, ‘course, yeah,” he says breezily, and Calum looks relieved, pushing himself off the sofa at the same time as Michael. 

They head for the table with alcohol on it, because Calum always needs liquid confidence before a conquest and Michael needs to drink until he fucking dies, and Michael pours himself a glass of wine, steadfastly not looking at Calum, whose eyes still haven’t strayed from Heather. 

“So, are we still going to go to Tower Records tomorrow, then?” he tries, eyes flitting to Calum, wanting the reassurance that Heather’s just another one-nighter, that Michael’s still got Calum in his waking hours. 

“Uh, well, she’s talking about going to some place called Paradise Cove tomorrow,” Calum says, a little absent-mindedly. Michael stares at his glass, and nods tightly. He needs some more fucking weed. Calum notices Michael’s lack of response and turns back to him, and Michael smiles at him, nodding, but he knows he’s failed in getting it to reach his eyes when Calum adds: “We’ll go another time, though?” 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Michael says, voice about an octave too high in his attempt to be casual, but it’s enough for Calum who turns away with a murmured _yeah, yeah._

“America, man,” he says, eyes wide, grin big, reaching for his drink. “Wide open spaces, beautiful girls-” Michael makes a noise that he hopes isn’t taken for the derision it’s meant to be but rather assent, but Calum doesn’t even seem to notice “-it’s a dream come true.” He grins back at Michael, who forces a smile, and raises his glass to Calum's. “Cheers,” Calum adds, and knocks back his vodka, and Michael swallows a good half of his glass of wine in one go. 

“Let’s stay here forever,” Calum says, eyes glittering, and then he leans over and presses a kiss to Michael’s cheek. His lips are soft and warm on Michael’s cheek, stubble scratching Michael’s jaw lightly, and Michael has to clench his fists to stop himself turning his head, catching Calum’s lips in a proper kiss. Calum lingers for a moment, or maybe that’s Michael’s marijuana-infused sense of time, before pulling back, grinning widely, and heading off in Heather’s direction. Michael lets himself watch Calum leave, knowing he’s staring after him like a kicked puppy but not even caring who sees him pining as long as it’s not Calum. 

The room suddenly feels too hot, too stuffy, cloying heat of the weed surrounding him hitting him all at once, and he heads out of the door that’s just swung shut behind Calum and Heather, taking deep gulps of the cool, crisp air and leaning against the wooden fence of the patio. Something softer has started playing in the background, piano and voice and Michael thinks it might be one of his, but can’t hear well enough over the sounds of people talking to piece it together. Groups of people are swaying to it in the garden, giggles carrying with the gentle breeze, and Michael spots Calum and Heather among them and has to turn away, a bitter taste rising in his throat. 

He decides to head for a tree stump near a campfire that nobody’s sitting around, figuring he can always throw himself into the fire if he gets too miserable. Calum and Heather have disappeared from his line of vision, and Michael tries his best not to think about it as he passes the teepee and hears giggles and moans coming from inside, tries not to visualise Calum’s back marked up by someone that isn’t him. 

The fire’s hot on his face, and Michael wonders if he could maybe blind himself by staring at it for too long and force Calum to, like, become his personal guide dog, or something, before the (small) non-melodramatic part of his brain threads its way through the alcohol and weed and tells him sternly not to be such a selfish prick. He tears his eyes away, gazing glumly at the tips of his boots instead, listening to everybody laughing and chattering around him and trying to resist the urge to stand up and yell at everybody that they _can’t_ be enjoying themselves in his vicinity, they’re not _allowed_ to laugh near him, can they not see how fucking tragic his life is? All the way in California, just played a sold-out show at the Troubadour, and he’s all on his fucking own.

 _No one near,_ he manages to make out from the song, and grimaces as he kicks a stone into the fire, just because he can, because his own music is hitting a little too close to home right now. He strains to listen to the rest of the song, just for something to do that isn’t spiral in his own mind, but it’s drowned out by the rustling sound of someone sitting down on the tree stump to his right. 

“Hi,” they say, a little tentatively, and Michael’s stomach sinks. It’s Calum, the only and also the last person Michael wants to see right now. 

“Hi,” Michael replies, a little moody, gazing at the fire. 

“You okay?” Calum says. Michael shrugs. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says, and it’s a challenge. _Dare you to call me out for being in love with you. Go on. Say it._

“Dunno,” Calum says, and Michael can hear the sound of his leather jacket as he shrugs. 

“Why aren’t you with Heather?” Michael says, and tries not to make it come out too bitter. There’s silence from his right. 

“Think we both know the answer to that,” Calum says quietly. Michael’s stomach twists uncomfortably, alcohol and weed and unrequited love. Fantastic. Now Calum’s _magnanimously_ giving up getting laid, like he’s ever so sorry, it’s just that his stupid fucking songwriter friend - yes, the ugly, balding one - has a massive crush on him and it’d just break his _heart_ if Calum had sex with someone while Michael was nearby. 

“Right,” Michael says, and it’s a little harsh. “Sorry for being such a fucking killjoy.” 

“What?” Calum says, and he sounds somewhere between surprised and confused. “Mike, that’s not-” 

“Look,” Michael says fiercely, gritting his teeth. “I can’t help it, okay? I’ll get over it, alright, and I’m sorry, but don’t fucking come over here playing the good guy, acting all sanctimonious-” 

“Mike, I- hang on, did you just say _sanctimonious?_ ”

“Taking the moral high ground, making such a fucking show of i-” 

“I know what sanctimonious means, Michael, I’m-” 

“Oh, so you think _I_ don’t know what sanctimonious means? Great, you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Michael says, throwing his hands in the air, knowing he’s not making any sense but wanting to goad Calum into a fight in whatever way he can, wanting a justified reason for the anger and the spite and the bitter sadness without the heavy guilt creeping into the edge of each one. 

“Jesus, Michael, I don’t think you’re an idiot, I’m just not being fucking sanctimonious,” Calum says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice now. “You’re such a fucking drama queen, you know that?” Another flare of anger flashes in Michael and he whips around to face Calum. 

“Are you fucking serious?” he demands, and there are tears pricking at his eyes that he can’t quite identify either with sadness or fury. “Do you have _any_ idea how difficult it is, Calum? Fucking _sorry_ that I fell in love with you, mate, but don’t act like it’s _your_ cross to b-” 

“You’re in love with me?” Calum interrupts, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. Michael swallows. Fuck. Alcohol, weed, and the kind of melodramatic anger only an artist can summon are _not_ a good combination. 

“Fuck you,” he bites out. “If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’m going to fucking fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me,” Calum says, and Michael wants to scream at him, even more so because he knows Calum’s right. Dick’s the only one with that power. 

“I can do what I _fucking_ like, Calu-” he starts irately, but Calum interrupts him again.

“Why the fuck have you got it in for me tonight, Mike?” Calum asks, and it’s a little weary, and the anger immediately dissipates from Michael’s chest as a surge of guilt courses through him. He sags, hunching into himself with a sigh. Cat’s out the fucking bag now, isn’t it, and there’s no point in him lashing out at Calum just to try and get a rise out of him. Calum never gives, not when he knows Michael’s just doing it to try and make himself feel better.

“I don’t,” Michael says sullenly. “Just don’t want you acting like I’m a massive fucking burden, is all.” 

“If you’d just let me fucking speak,” Calum begins, and then breaks off, like he’d been expecting Michael to interrupt. Michael just raises his eyebrows. 

“Well, go on then,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets just for something to do. 

“I thought you knew,” Calum says, and then stops. 

“That’s all?” Michael says in disbelief. “That’s what you wanted me to listen to?” 

“No, look,” Calum says, and he reaches out for Michael’s thigh, hand warm and gentle and Michael wants to flinch away, but his body won’t let him. “I went off with Heather tonight because-” he pauses, and swallows, like whatever he’s saying is taking more out of him than Michael knows, but presses on. “Because I thought it’s what I needed. And then we got to the teepee, and she started kissing me, and I...all I could think was it was wrong. She was wrong.” Michael stares at the fire steadfastly. 

“No offence, Calum,” he says, a little harshly, pulling his leg away from Calum’s hand, “but I’m not really in the mood to give you relationship counselling.” 

“Will you just _fucking_ listen?” Calum says, and he sounds exasperated now. 

“Get to the fucking _point_ , then,” Michael growls. Calum takes a deep breath. 

“I wanted it to be _you,_ ” he says. 

“You wanted _me_ to kiss Heather?” Michael says, and laughs humourlessly. “Look, mate, I _know_ I’m fucking lonely, I don’t need your pity, alright, and how how many fucking times do I have to tell you I’m _ga-_ ” 

“I wanted to be kissing _you_.” 

Michael hears the fire crackling for the first time, spitting sparks into the air between them. 

“You...what?” he says, and chances a look at Calum to see if he’s taking the piss. Calum’s staring at him, looking a little pale but very determined. 

“I want to kiss you.” Michael blinks. 

“Cal, you’re drunk,” he says heavily, and hesitates before adding, “and you’re _straight,_ ” pained, and voice cracking a little. Calum swallows, and shrugs tightly. 

“Apparently not,” he says. 

“I’m not going to be your _experiment_ ,” Michael says bitterly. “What, you find out you might want to kiss a bloke and you think ‘oh, yeah, Michael’s gay and lonely, I’ll give it a shot with him’? I’m not a fucking charity case, Cal.” 

“I don’t think you are,” Calum says. “I-” he breaks off, inhales deeply, and exhales heavily. Michael watches his chest rise and fall, feels his own heart thud a little faster. “Look. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first met you. In that little café, remember? We started singing ‘Streets of Laredo’ and pissed everyone off. You were grinning at me, doing that little squinty-eyes thing you do when you’re _really_ laughing at something, and I just wanted to grab you by your ugly fucking lapels and kiss you.” 

“But I kissed you,” Michael points out. “On the roof.” _And you pushed me away,_ he doesn’t say, because it hurts too much, but Calum hears it. He sighs, and casts his eyes at the fire, avoiding Michael’s gaze. 

“I know,” he says miserably. “I just- I wasn’t sure. I value you so much, Mike, you know that. You’re my heart, my soul, my-” 

“Career?” Calum huffs out a laugh, lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Yeah, that too,” he says. “I had to be sure. I didn’t want to fuck any of it up, y’know? But I’ve wanted you since the café. Since before that, actually. Since I heard the tape you sent me.” 

“You didn’t even know what I looked like,” Michael says, and Calum shrugs. 

“Didn’t need to,” he says, still staring into the fire. “Your _voice_ , Mike…” he trails off, like he’s reminiscing, and then clears his throat, catching himself. “Hearing you sing _my_ songs, the songs I wrote about _you-_ ” 

“Hang on,” Michael interrupts, because _what?_ What fucking songs has Calum written about _him?_ The King Must Die? 

“What?” Calum sounds surprised now. “C’mon, Mike. First Episode at Hienton? Take Me to the Pilot? _Your Song?_ ” 

“Your Song?” Michael repeats, dumbfounded. Calum finally tears his eyes away from the fire and looks at Michael, a little reproachfully, like it’s Michael’s fault he hadn’t noticed Calum’s cryptic lyrics had been about _him._

“‘I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue’?” Calum quips, and Michael blinks. 

“Oh,” he says, because he can’t really think of anything else to say, nothing that will do the velvety feeling of _God, I’m so fucking in love with you_ justice. Calum huffs out a laugh, like this is funny somehow, and like their entire world isn’t teetering on a knife’s edge in the middle of a party somewhere in Hollywood, both of them drunk and stoned and tired. 

“This isn’t an experiment, Mike,” he says. “I’ve- I, uh. Experimented already, so. I’m sure about it.”

“You’ve- you’ve been with guys?” Michael repeats slowly. Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. 

“Had to be sure,” he says again. “Would never have experimented with _you._ You mean too much to me for that.” 

“When?” 

“When what?”

“When’ve you been with guys?” Calum bites his lip. 

“Few times, at clubs,” he says, and Michael thinks back to all the times he’d lost Calum in the crowd, searched for him in vain, given up and gone home alone because he didn’t want to face seeing Calum grinding against a girl in the corner of the room. 

“Huh,” Michael says, images shifting to Calum grinding up against a man in the corner of the room. He finds he kind of hates it, kind of doesn’t. Jealousy and pride are licking at each other in his veins, wanting to have been Calum’s first but knowing that Calum did it because he didn’t want Michael to be an experiment, because he wanted to be sure. The thought makes him feel _worth_ something, the same way Calum’s lyrics have made him feel worth something for the first time in years. 

“So?” Calum says, and there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice. 

“So what?” 

“So...can I kiss you?” Michael meets his gaze, giving him one last chance to change his mind and pretend they’ve both forgotten about it by tomorrow morning, and Calum, although he looks fucking terrified, holds it steadily, breathing a little laboured. 

Jesus fucking Christ, Michael thinks, stomach flipping, adrenaline making his heart lurch. They’re really doing this, then.

“You did hear me when I said I was in love with you, right?” Michael says, unable to help the smile that plays at his lips, and Calum grins, fear and relief mingling on his face. 

“Is that a yes?” he says, and Michael rolls his eyes, leans forwards, cups Calum’s jaw and presses their lips together. Calum’s warm, soft against him, tasting like stale alcohol and stale weed, but Michael finds he doesn’t even care when Calum makes a little noise and melts into him, lips moving against Michael’s and kissing him _back._ A shock of something like dampened arousal shoots through Michael and he crowds in closer, almost falling off his tree stump, wanting to feel Calum everywhere he can. 

Michael’s not sure whether it’s the weed or whether it actually does last forever, but it feels like two centuries have passed before Calum pulls away, breathing heavily. He looks fucking _obscene,_ eyes dark and lips plump and parted, and Jesus Christ, Michael’s _way_ too fucking stoned for this. 

“Fuck,” Calum says, touching his lips almost absent-mindedly, and Michael huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

“Well,” Calum says stupidly, blinking at Michael, all dark lashes and blown pupils and Michael can’t help himself, leaning forwards and pressing another soft, chaste kiss to Calum’s lips, because he fucking _can._ Calum’s eyes are wide when Michael draws back (reluctantly, but he’s about to lose his balance on the tree stump), following Michael as he pulls away. 

“You look pretty fucked,” Michael tells him, and Calum grins. 

“I _am_ pretty fucked,” he agrees. “Fucked in the head for liking you.” Michael tries to scowl but can’t stop the smile breaking through, because fuck, Calum _likes him._ Jesus. 

“You’re such a dickhead,” he says, but he’s grinning, and Calum’s grinning back. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, eyes soft. “But at least I’m your dickhead, right?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says gently, holding his hand out, fingers splayed, even though it’s far too fucking hot by the fire for this, and Calum slots his fingers between Michael’s, his hand warm and heavy in Michael’s. “Not that you have much choice, anyway. I’m the only one that’d put up with you.” Calum laughs, and squeezes Michael’s hand. 

“You’re one to talk,” he says pointedly, and Michael thinks yeah, he’s kind of got a point. Calum hadn’t been wrong to call him a drama queen. 

“Well, at least you know how to shut me up, now,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, grin turning a little wicked. “What, you think there’s any other reason I’d want to kiss you?” Michael manages a scowl this time, and goes to elbow Calum, forgetting he’s balanced on a fucking tree stump and falling right off, pulling Calum with him. Michael lands on the grass between the two of them with a thud, ground pressed uncomfortably into his back, but when he looks up to see Calum sprawled on top of him, face inches from Michael’s, he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Good job,” Calum deadpans, and then they both burst out laughing, because fuck, this is fucking _ridiculous_. They’re on the floor at a party in California after Michael’s first night at the fucking _Troubadour_ , drunk and high out of their minds, and Calum wants to _kiss_ _Michael._ None of it makes any sense to Michael, a chronological string of non sequiturs, but it all makes warm embers burn in the pit of his stomach and he fucking loves it, fucking loves _Calum._

“God, I fucking love you,” he tells Calum, and Calum grins, resting his forehead against Michael’s. 

“Don’t blame you, mate,” he murmurs, capturing Michael’s lips in another kiss.

 _Lay me down in sheets of linen,_ Michael hears his own voice suggest over the crackling fire and the buzz of voices, but it’s Calum’s words in Michael’s mouth, and Michael grins into the kiss, thinking yeah, he might do just that. 


End file.
